Your felled voice,
the enclosing rings of years
burned open, dug out
by your own mollusked hands.
Overtones still whistle in the culvert
against the seesaw squeal and the handclap rhyme,
where you spired over the playground,
amulets dangling horse-haired from limbs,
clinking and whispering avert to the winds.
Prow hidden in bark and pith,
still rooted and rising,
hands grip the chains of the swing,
waiting into the skies
for the Black Sea to come home.